Glenn Cooper: Library of the Dead aka Secret of the Seventh Son

They faced each other across the large square table in the Cabinet Room, where night or day, Churchill would summon his closest advisors. It was a drab, utilitarian chamber with stale air. Nearby was the Map Room, still papered with the charts of the theaters of war, and Churchill’s private bedroom, which still reeked of cigars long after the last one had been extinguished. Farther down the hall in an old converted broom closet was the Transatlantic Telephone Room, where the scrambler, code-named “Sigsaly,” encrypted the conversations between Churchill and Roosevelt. For all Bevin knew, the gear still functioned. Nothing had changed since the day the War Rooms had been quietly closed down: VJ Day.

“Do you want to have a poke around?” Bevin asked. “I believe Major General Stuart has a set of keys.”

“I do not.” Churchill was impatient now. The bunker made him uneasy. Curtly, he said, “Look, why don’t you get to the point? What do you want?”

Bevin spoke his rehearsed introduction. “An issue has arisen, quite unexpected, quite remarkable and quite sensitive. The government must deal with it carefully and delicately. As it involves the Americans, the Prime Minister wondered whether you might be unusually well-positioned to assist him personally in the matter.”

“I’m in the opposition,” Churchill said icily. “Why should I wish to assist him in any activity other than vacating Downing Street and returning me to my office?”

“Because, you are the greatest patriot the nation has ever possessed. And because the man I see sitting before me cares more for the welfare of the British populace than he does for political expediency. That is why I believe you may wish to help the government.”

Churchill looked bemused, aware he was being played. “What the devil have you got yourself into? Appealing to my patriotic side? Go on, tell me about your mess.”

“That folder summarizes our situation,” Bevin said, nodding at the red portfolio. “I wonder if you might read through it. Have you brought your reading glasses?”

Churchill fumbled through his breast pocket. “I have.” He wrapped the spindly wire rims around his enormous head. “And you’ll just sit there and twiddle your thumbs?”

Bevin nodded and leaned back in the simple wooden chair. He watched Churchill snort and open the portfolio. He watched him read the first paragraph. He watched him remove his glasses and ask, “Is this some kind of a joke? Do you honestly expect me to believe this?”

“It’s no joke. Incredible, yes. Fictitious, no. As you read you’ll see the preliminary work military intelligence has done to authenticate the findings.”

“This is not the sort of thing I was expecting.”

Bevin nodded.

Before Churchill resumed reading, he lit a cigar. His old ashtray was still at hand.

From time to time he muttered something unintelligible under his breath. Once he exclaimed, “Isle of Wight of all places!” At one point he rose to uncramp his legs and re-light his cigar. Every so often he furrowed his brow and hit Bevin with a quick quizzical stare until, after ten minutes, he had completed the file. He removed his glasses, tucked them away, then took a deep drag on his Havana. “Am I in there?”

“Undoubtedly yes, but I would not know the details,” Bevin said solemnly.

“And you?” Churchill asked.

“I haven’t inquired.”

Suddenly, Churchill became animated, as he had been so many times in this room, his blood boiling with conviction. “This must be suppressed from the public! We are only just awakening from our great nightmare. This will only plunge us into darkness and chaos.”

“That is precisely our opinion.”

“Who knows about this? How tightly can it be controlled?”

“The circle is small. Besides the P.M., I am the only minister. Fewer than a half-dozen military officers know enough to connect the dots. Then, of course, there’s Professor Atwood and his team.”

Churchill grunted. “That is a particular problem. You were right to isolate them.”

“And finally,” Bevin continued, “the Americans. Given our special relationship, we felt we had to inform President Truman, but we’ve been given assurances that only a very small number of their people have been briefed.”

“Is that the reason you’ve come to me? Because of the Yanks?”

Bevin finally felt warm enough to remove his coat. “I will be completely truthful with you. The Prime Minister wants you to deal with Truman. Their relationship is frosty. The government wants to delegate this matter to you. We don’t want to be involved beyond today. The Americans have offered to take full possession of the materials, and after considerable internal debate our inclination is to let them have them. We don’t want it. They have all sorts of ideas apparently, but frankly we don’t wish to know. There’s serious work to be done to reconstruct the country, and we can’t take on the distraction, the accountability, should there be a leak-or the expense. Further, decisions must be made regarding Atwood and the others. We are asking you to assume control of this matter, not as the leader of the opposition, not as a political figure, but in a personal capacity as a moral leader.”

Churchill had been nodding his head. “Smart. Very smart. Probably your idea. I would have done the same. Listen, friend, can you give me assurances that this won’t be used against me in the future? I plan on thumping you at the next general election, and it would be bad form to torpedo me beneath the waterline.”

“You have my assurances,” Bevin replied. “The matter transcends politics.”

Churchill got up and clapped his hands together once. “Then I’ll do it. I’ll call Harry in the morning if you can arrange it. Then I’ll deal with the Atwood conundrum.”

Bevin cleared his throat, which had become dry. “I’d rather hoped you could deal with Professor Atwood speedily. He’s down the corridor.”

“He’s here! You want me to deal with him now?” Churchill asked incredulously.

Bevin nodded and rose a little too quickly, as if he were escaping. “I’m going to leave you to it and personally report back to the P.M.” He stopped for emphasis. “Major General Stuart will be your logistical aide. He’ll attend to you until the matter is resolved and all materials have been removed from British soil. Is that acceptable to you?”

“Yes, of course. I’ll take care of everything.”

“Thank you. The government is grateful.”

“Yes, yes, everyone will be grateful except my wife, who’s going to murder me for missing dinner,” Churchill mused. “Have Atwood brought in.”

“You want to see him? I hadn’t thought that was entirely necessary.”

“It is not a matter of wanting to see him. I feel I have no choice.”

Geoffrey Atwood sat before the most famous man in the world with a look of utter bewilderment. He was fit and sinewy from years of fieldwork but his complexion was sallow and he looked ill. Although fifty-two, present circumstances made him appear a decade older. Churchill noted a fine tremor in his arm when the man lifted a mug of milky tea to his lips.

“I have been held against my will for almost a fortnight,” Atwood vented. “My wife knows nothing of this. Five of my colleagues have likewise been detained, one of them a woman. With all due respect, Prime Minister, this is quite outrageous. A member of my group, Reginald Saunders, has died. We have been traumatized by these events.”

“Yes,” Churchill agreed, “it is quite outrageous. And traumatic. I have been briefed on Mr. Saunders. However, I’m sure you would agree, Professor, that the entire affair is most extraordinary.”

“Well, yes, but…”